Align
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUSUK. Why learn to be a monster when you can grow be a god? In four parts.
1. I

Well, well, well. It's 4th of July again.

Time for me to grace the _Hetalia_ fandom with a horrible story about America. XD I can't write something nice, I don't have it in me.

Align

[1/4]

His first memory is fields.

High sweet grasses and wildflowers in bursts of summer colour: blues, pinks, yellows. There is the thick honeyed scent of pollen, the clusters of soft white seeds on the evening breeze. He knows every muted blue of the sky, every whisper of each silver river. For a long time, he knows nothing else.

Then he meets England - or is discovered by him, as it goes. Suddenly, of every inch of his vast plains, there is nowhere to hide.

There are other nations (this is what they are, he learns) on his land, too, beginning to settle it - all pale-skinned, golden-haired, just like him - but England is the one that interests him the most. England is a lot younger than the others he has seen: in his mid-teens, perhaps, with wild hair and green eyes.

He has never seen green eyes before.

Something draws him to this one in particular, something about the way he holds himself: as though he has something extraordinary on his shoulders that he hasn't grown into yet.

He makes his intentions about settling and owning clear in a voice loud with uncertainty, as though he knows he's biting off more then he can chew. The hand he offers, however, is gentler. _Come with me,_ it says. _You are just like us. I will love you, America._

This is his first mistake.

* * *

America waits at the window, sitting on the sill, his knees drawn up beneath his chin. He has been waiting, watching, for the past two weeks. Sea travel is a wondrous thing but unpredictable, unreliable, so all he has for now is the letter. The crease is worn and dirty from the number of times he's folded and unfolded it, read it, reread it, cherished the dyed words. Every inch of this letter is etched onto his brain by now, the curve and flick and waver of every character, the smudge in the bottom left corner, the dried splatch of ink under his name.

Sometimes England doesn't get the time to write him letters - or sometimes they don't make it across the sea - so every one that is delivered into his hands is precious. They smell of salt and tea and the tight gritty powder the humans used on their wigs. Close proximity. Even if he hadn't seen the seal, he'd have known that England wrote this in a snatched five minutes at Westminster. He must be busy. The letter, then, brings America all the more glee. Even the humans cannot come between them.

The weather might, however. It's July but it's been raining for close on a week, with bad seas. So every day America sits at the windowsill and watches the grey mist rising off the driveway, listening for the clatter of wheels, the whinny of horses. He's never been a patient boy but this is all he can do.

England will probably be wearing his red velvet frock coat. He likes to travel in that.

* * *

England arrives in the late afternoon. It's still raining, the sky a rather sulky grey, and he and the servants are soaked as they bustle into the hall with chests and crates and sackcloth packages. America comes scrambling from the drawing room, where he had cocooned himself in the purple curtain, and bounds amongst them excitedly. England can usually be counted on to bring interesting things from all over Europe back with him - and some of those things edible, too, always a bonus when you've been living off bread and corn and salted meat for months.

Most interesting, of course, is England himself, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes as he orders the house serving staff to take this and that here and there. He is wearing the coat, though it's gone a little bald at the elbows, glittering with damp.

America wants him madly, ducking beneath a Chinese-lacquered chest to get to him; and there he flings himself into his arms.

"England!" He snuggles against his wet chest. "I've missed you so!"

"And I you, poppet," England replies, patting his hair. "But pray let off, I need to change."

America releases him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He is forced to wait again, agonised, as England gives the last of his directions and heads across the hall towards the sweeping staircase. America pads smugly after him, catching him up on the stairs. He noticed now that he's almost as tall as him.

"England, I simply must show you everything I've been doing whilst you've been gone," he chirps. "I've read all of Shakespeare, every last one, and you were right, they were most wonderful! Also I have practiced my handwriting every day and I think it has improved so much that you will scarcely believe it! Oh, and I shot a buffalo with the most beautiful hide, I really do think it would make such a splendid rug - and the tanner in Boston has agreed to teach me how to-"

"My, my," England interrupts approvingly, "you _have_ been busy." Now an arch of an eyebrow. "And how is your understanding of mathematics?"

America looks away sulkily.

"I have done a little," he admits, "but I find it so boring as to be an offence."

"We will remedy that soon enough," England says calmly, coming to the door of their room. "You must learn, my darling, that mathematics can be quite as splendid as poetry."

"I fail to see how," America sniffs as England opens the door.

"That is because you have yet to know the glories of addition, multiplication..." England smirks. "All far more enjoyable, of course, when one has physical items which perform such tricks. Cotton, sugar, tea..." He gives a satisfied shrug and vanishes into the room beyond.

America follows, hoping that he won't be scolded for the mess. He doesn't like the servants to come in here, even to tidy it up. This is the room he shares with England and the mere thought of a human disturbing the sanctuary of this space unsettles him. It follows, therefore, that the bedsheets are still rumpled and the floor is littered with books and wooden models and clothes.

"Perhaps we'll start with subtraction," England says coolly, shrugging off his wet coat. "Remove all of these things from this floor, you slovenly little hellion."

"Later." America presses the door shut with his weight, leans against it. He's been waiting months for this, for England to finally return to him, for them to retreat once more into their tiny unmarred world.

He will not be denied a moment longer.

He catches England's wrist, leaning in close. He is almost as tall as him now.

"Or, perhaps," he goes on, fingering England's buttons, there might be subtraction of quite a different kind."

"Is that so." England smirks again, allowing him a kiss - for that is what the brat wants. It's dry, short but forceful. "That would be of clothing, I presume." A roll of his green eyes. "Heaven knows where you pick up such things."

America scowls. He is at the age where he thinks everything he says is clever.

"It is no worse than your remark about the mess!" he says crossly.

"Perhaps not," England agrees, smiling. He rubs fondly at America's cheek: the boy has grown a lot since he last saw him but he's still chubby with baby-fat. It makes him delectable - and hard to take seriously. He could gobble that pout right up.

America shakes his head free, determined to get what he wants. He pushes England against the dresser, kissing him again, harder. There is tongue this time, a flash of teeth. He fists his hands in the green silk of England's waistcoat, holding him.

England lets him, opens his mouth, enjoys it; but he puts his hands to America's elbows all the same, holding him at bay. And when, as he does, he begins his silly fumbling, England pushes him off.

"That's enough, lad." He wipes his mouth on his cuff. "Later."

"No, I want-" America begins.

"Yes, I know perfectly well what you want." England pushes his knee up between America's legs, feeling him. The boy hisses, shuddering. "But this room is a disgrace and I'm wet and hungry." He reaches out, takes America's chin to make him look him in the eyes. "When all of these things are remedied, you can have whatever you want."

"I've waited patiently for seven months, America complains, rubbing his chin as England steps past him.

"Then I trust you can wait a little bit longer." England pauses at the door, glancing back at him, his damp coat glittering in the grey light. "My dear colony, isn't it always worth the wait?"

* * *

"Mm." America half-giggles, squirming away. "Don't."

He doesn't get far, of course: England is draped over his back, their sated bodies pressed together. America reaches back to bat pathetically at him.

"Stop that."

England, who is licking his shoulder, grins against the bone.

"Just getting a taste," he murmurs.

"Of what?" America wrinkles his nose. "Sweat and hay?"

"Oh, you are too young," England sighs. "You will understand one day."

"Why you keep licking me?"

"Mm." England exhales again, putting his chin against the back of his colony's neck. He wraps his arms around the boy, cuddling him close. Silence.

"England?" America fidgets with the coarse blanket thrown over their tangled bodies. "...Is there something troubling you?"

"Not particularly," England replies. "I am only tired. There is... much turmoil in Europe."

"Oh." A pause. "Does that mean you will not be here long?"

"I fear not." England strokes at his hair. "I am sorry."

"It's not your fault," America mumbles. "I just... well, your last visit was also very short-"

"If France and Spain would mind their own business, I should have all the time in the world to spend with you," England interrupts tiredly. "Alas, they seem to be united in their cause against me."

"Perhaps I could be of some use?" Now America squirms loose, sitting up. He looks down at England, who props his cheek on his fist, watching him wearily.

"I doubt it," he replies. "You are still very young."

"But I have grown very quickly!" America points out. "You have said so yourself - much faster than any other nation you have ever witnessed!"

"Mercifully," England says dryly, giving America a wry look up and down.

"W-well, then is it truly so ludicrous that I might assist you?" America flexes his awkward, skinny arm. "I am strong from tending the fields, I can use many types of weapon, I-"

"Your brain." England sits up, stretching to tap at the boy's temple. "Your mind is not right for it. Not yet."

America scowls.

"And how do you know such things?"

England smiles.

"I am a nation, am I not?" He pats America's cheek. "And a colony you may be, you are of us. The apple never falls too far from the tree."

America shakes his head free with a sulky sigh.

"I wished only to help," he mutters, looking at the fire.

"That is precisely my point." England flops back against the mattress. "You want to help, my dear. You have no urge to kill, not for yourself. When you are consumed... _that_ is when you are ready."

America frowns.

"I hate it when you talk like that," he murmurs, sinking across England's chest. "You do not sound like yourself."

England, carding his hand roughly through the boy's tangled hair, says nothing.

"Tomorrow, at least," America goes on, "may we not amuse ourselves more pleasingly?"

He means a walk into Boston, tending the fields, lunch in the shade of one of the ancient oaks, apple-gathering, a swim in the river, supper in the drawing room by the fire...

"I suppose so," England says, yawning. "And if you are very well-behaved these next few days, I shall take you to New York on Friday."

This is teasing; nonetheless, America pouts.

"I am _always_ well-behaved," he grouses, pinching England's cheeks.

England laughs, shaking his head free. His laugh is still very young - more than his voice, which has dropped lower since America last saw him.

"Yes, I suppose you are," he agrees. "You always do exactly what I expect of you."

* * *

New York, high summer, and they have a grand old time. England has work to do, of course, and America spends a lot of time sleeping in or wandering the streets on his own, but the hours they have together are wonderful. England seems to have embraced the fact that America is older now, at least, and for the first time they really feel more like friends than the peculiar parental relationship they had before. Now America realises that the apple does indeed flourish at the root; he sees how alike they are, loves that he is almost England's equal. They engage in conversation that England might have once deemed inappropriate; they go to see bawdy plays that shock the last of America's Puritan values right out of him; they buy new clothes and go drinking in them, tottering back to the house at three in the morning singing sea shanties; they have loud fumbling sex that ends in laughter.

Yes, America has grown quickly. They are two young men, best friends, having the sort of adventure that young men do, quivering at the bone.

America is completely and utterly in love with him - the way that young men are.

The last night:

"Where are you going next?" America is sprawled in the grand bed, lazily watching England pack clothes and books into chests.

"North," England replies absently. "I suppose I ought to look in on your brother."

"May I come?"

"Not this time, darling."

America sits up, folding his arms over his knees.

"Why not? Canada is my brother, after all. I have not seen him in a long while."

"The conditions are..." England pauses. "Well, I just think it safer if you go back to Boston."

"England, I am hardly a child," America says coldly. "I should hope that the last few weeks have shown you that."

England merely snorts.

"Sexual maturity and mental maturity are two very different things," he says, "especially in creatures like us. I pray that you forget about what you see the humans doing. They are not something to be measured by."

"I am not asking to be made a general!" America groans, throwing an arm over his face and flopping back. "Nor even a governor!"

"Then what?" England stops, straightening. He looks at him across the room. "You desire to be my consort?"

"What would that entail?"

"Travelling about with me, hanging most prettily off my arm... keeping my bed warm, as it were."

This is sarcastic, of course, but America looks at him sincerely from beneath his elbow.

"Yes please," he says gravely.

"I am not in the practice of keeping colonies to be my whores," England replies sharply.

"I know - but it sounds like a good time, all the same."

"Oh, you say that now," England sighs, "but you'd grow to resent me most dreadfully."

"Then I would stop." America shrugs.

"By then the damage would be done." England goes back to his task. "If you want to be taken seriously, keep your head down until you are ready to be reckoned with."

"I _am_ ready to be reckoned with," America argues.

"You are not." Again England drops what he's doing; he comes to the bedside, folding his arms.

America glances up at him furtively, almost slyly.

"Then why do you waste your time with me?"

"Because I know strength when I see it." England's tone is somewhat absent-minded. He sits on the edge of the bed, leans over, lets America wrap his arms around him and cling. They share a kiss. America still tastes of alcohol; England has let him have far too much.

"Perhaps one day I'll destroy you, then," America murmurs, pressing his forehead to England's. "How about that?"

"Perhaps," England agrees. He sounds dazed, uncommitted.

America, who said it only to make him squawk in indignation, frowns. He lays his head on England's shoulder. He needs to feel him now, warm, solid, because soon it will all be gone again. Just as he can grasp him, he will slip between his fingers.

"Despite our closeness," he whispers, watching the candle burn at the bedside, "I feel that I cannot reach you."

He feels England reach up to stroke at the back of his neck. It's gentle, constant, like the rain on the window.

"That," England replies, "is for the best."

* * *

This story should be four parts. I do have a lot of it done already so hopefully it won't take me too long but we all know how often I say that and then fail to deliver. :D

Incidentally, this part of the story seems rather normal. Hopefully that won't last too long...


	2. II

So really _this_ should have been the chapter that I posted on July 4th, since it actually deals with the Boston Tea Party and the Revolutionary War. OH WELL.

Glad people seem to like this story so far! I feel like my writing a horribly-inappropriate story for 4th July is something that is expected of me now. XD

Thanks to: **neighborehood, Tamitan, Hibird assassin, haruhasu, Lamashtar Two, Winter-Grown-Lily** and **suzako**!

Align

[2/4]

America is bigger, broader - he is taller than England, heavier, could cage him in his grasp-

If only he could hold him.

The years yawn between them. England hasn't been back to Boston for a good while - and now flitters resentfully, restless, pacing the house like a caged animal.

"It wasn't me," America says reproachfully. "It was the colonists."

"I suspect you did nothing to stop them," England spits, tobacco flaring. He's taken up smoking. America doesn't like it.

"What did you expect me to do?" America asks. "They wouldn't have listened - I doubt they would have hesitated to string me up as traitor."

"It is _they_ who are the traitors," England snaps."Bloody hooligans, the lot of them! Do you have any idea how much that tea was _worth_?"

America scowls.

"Is that all you care about?"

Now England pauses, stopping in front of the fire. He inhales slowly on his thin cigar, watching America out of the corner of his eye, a strange bloody sort of green.

There's something not right about him. America has noticed it these past few days - he seems older all of a sudden, tired, wary, even, but not the way that humans become in their old age. This is not a process of grinding down but more a transmutation. Something right in the core of him is changing, as though he's about to shed his skin, and the rawness of it is exhausting.

Now America begins to understand. He is afraid. This is not the young man he shares a bed with.

"Is that all I care about?" England repeats sighingly. He flicks his cigar into the fire. It goes up with a roar. "My beautiful mathematics, multiplying and multiplying..."

"England," America says warningly. He has to stand up to him now or he never will. "I fear you are exhausted - and upset, understandably." He rises from the sofa, catches up England's hands, draws him back towards the table. "Come, sit, be calm."

"Hollow sings the voice of reason," England says coolly. Nonetheless he allows himself to be led, perching on the edge of the sofa.

"I do not think my words hollow," America says. "If you do not see sense then it is because you _will_ not." He releases England's hands, begins to fiddle around with the tea-set on the table, setting out two cups. "And," he goes on, "I suspect that it is only because you choose not you. You choose to put your care only in material wealth." A pause. "You choose to care no more for me."

"That is not true." But England's protest is not shrill or offended; he is matter-of-fact, detached. He looks distractedly at his hands, turning them this way and that, as America pours the tea. He doesn't look at him as he accepts the cup.

"I suppose," he says, "you mark this as a peace offering?"

"I told you, I had nothing to do with the demonstration."

"I think you're lying." England sips at his tea. "In fact, I know you are."

America says nothing to this, only exhales deeply. Whatever he says will damn him.

"This is it," England sighs. "I let you in and you eat out my heart."

"I was not aware that you had one," America replies. It is so abrupt that he's surprised he said it himself - and for a long moment afterwards he clutches at his cup in silence, his lips pressed tightly together. Now he does not know what else to say.

There is silence. America watches the painted clock on the parlour wall, the blue pendulum ticking back and forth.

"Well," England sighs. "Well."

Now America dares to look at him: England is sitting with the fingers of one hand pressed to his forehead, staring absently at his cup. His brow is creased and his shoulders are hunched.

He doesn't look like he heard a word America said.

"...England?" America hesitates, reaches for him, grasps his shoulder. He can feel him quivering beneath his hand. "England, are you alright?"

England jumps, needling under his touch.

"Yes, yes, I'm quite... quite alright." He shakes his head, standing up. "Would you excuse me?" He puts down his cup, still so full that it sloshes over the side.

"What of your tea?" America says; stupidly, perhaps, but bitterly also. England, after all, has made such a _fuss_ about the damned tea...

"Do what you will," England replies absently. "I cannot even taste it."

* * *

In the evening it rains, warm and heavy, piercing holes in the overripe fruit clustered between the roots of trees. He knows he should go out and gather them up or there will be flies in the morning - but the thought of doing something so boring and necessary is one that fills him with an innumerable dread. He shouldn't worry about that sort of thing. He feels like he would be making the same mistake twice.

He climbs the staircase with a candle. He hasn't seen England since he left the parlour, although he has listened to the creaking of the floorboards overhead, punctuated with the occasional heavy thump. His pacing, however, has stopped for now; the ceiling has been silent for a good hour.

He stops outside the door of the room they share, watching the flame. He does not know what he will find - nor what he wants from presenting himself before England again. To him, England is the gateway to the globe, familiar and exotic all at once. He is all America will ever need. The same cannot be said of the reverse: America has become aware recently that he is not the full sum of England's world, that he is not a novelty, that there is a whole globe full of other nations which England may go between, taking, leaving. England has access to things that he does not, knows things that he cannot imagine. He realises that he does not know what their relationship should be, that all their past interactions have been only what he has seen humans do. He and England have a very different perception of normality.

That is what frightens him the most.

It's his room so he doesn't knock, cracking open the door and leaning in with the candle. The room beyond is dark, the curtains drawn, the fire simmering. The floor is littered with books, some with pages torn out. The shelves are empty. England is lying face-down on the bed, fully-dressed, completely still but for the rise of his breathing.

America goes to the bed, setting the candle at the bedside. England doesn't move in the slightest.

"England?" America reaches out, runs his hand down his back, gentle over the dip and rise. "...If you are unwell, I can send for the doctor."

After a long moment's silence, England at last speaks:

"I doubt there is much a doctor can do for me."

Something about this hits America right at the core. He understands - at least enough that he does not question.

He clambers onto England, lying on top of him. Their bodies don't fit together quite as well as they used to because he's taller but he likes his solid warmth beneath him. England squirms a bit but doesn't protest.

"The books?" America ventures, his voice low, close to England's ear. "It is unlike you to mistreat them."

"I feel unlike myself. There is not a word in my entire language that can even guess at how I feel." England sighs. "That was the source of my anger, you see. What sense can I make of beautiful words any longer? I feel that I have been struck deaf and blind."

America shifts uncomfortably.

"If this... is about the tea-"

"It is not about the tea. The tea is barely dust in my eye."

"Then-"

"You do not understand." Then, in a gentler voice, "I pray that you never will."

"You say that," America mumbles, looking up at the ceiling. "Always you say that - but to what end? What are you trying to warn me of?"

"Warn?" England gives a hoarse laugh from beneath him. "My dear, what can I say? My head is full of a language I have no idea how to speak."

* * *

This is the last night they make love. England is hard under his hands, unyielding, his green eyes distant. His mouth is strangely cold when he bites America on the shoulder, breaks the skin, draws blood.

There is a mark the next morning - but that is all. England is gone.

He does not see him again until 1776.

* * *

There's been barely a hello between them. America pulls his tattered blue coat closer around himself as he puts out his hand.

"Well then," he says, "I suppose this is goodbye."

England looks blankly at his hand. He doesn't move.

"It is for the best," America goes on, his hand unwavering. He wishes England would hurry up. He doesn't want to keep General Washington waiting. And, well...

...This has not been an easy war to wage or to fight. Even now he can barely bring himself to look England in the face. Even now he loves him.

It has probably been easier for England. America doesn't think he's even really in there.

He was, briefly. When he came to his knees and cried, America saw him. Their eyes met. They knew each other, knew what this meant. All in all, this is never what America expected would happen. Even now, England is still the shape of his world: red-backed, flaxen-haired. The bitemark locks their language in.

"I suppose it is," England replies suddenly. "For the best, I mean."

"Yes." America nods.

"But it is not what I promised you." England frowns, as though suddenly and violently unearthing the memory. "Do you remember?"

"Of course I do," America says gently. "And of course it isn't. I made you promise something impossible."

"Well, I suppose I cannot blame you. It is the sort of thing humans promise, after all." England shrugs. "As much as I want to despise you for that, I cannot."

"I am glad." America offers his hand again; but England surprises him by getting up and suddenly embracing him.

He hesitates for a moment. He doesn't know where to put his hands - but then he does. They grasp the back of England's coat and cling.

"Please do something for me," England says quietly.

"Yes, of course, anything." He breathes him in. At this moment, if England orders him to surrender, he will - even though the Sons of Liberty have already won. What he wants is understandable.

"Go," England says, "and do not look back." He lets him go, gives him a push. "Whatever you do, America, do not look back."

* * *

America presses out his cravat, fidgeting with the pin. He's nervous. He can't help it.

Here is England before him, brightly burning. He is quite the sight for sore eyes in green velvet and gold brocade silk, one leg crossed over the other as he lights a cigarette. From cravat to gloves, his skin is invisible from the neck down, dressed in the armour of the enviable. His eyes are like jewels (Mughal, they'd have to be), watching America from beneath his eyelashes. He's like a curious child before a new toy.

This is an Empire. England is beautiful but he is no longer young. His jaw is sharper, his shoulders are broader. America doesn't know him.

"Will you have some tea?" England makes a lazy gesture with the hand holding the cigarette.

This seems like a loaded question. America bites at his bottom lip.

"Yes, please." This is only to be polite. He's not much into tea anymore, personally. He prefers coffee.

England pours it from a great height, making a show of it. He pushes it towards America and leans back in his chair again, examining his cigarette. He still has that flittering impatience about him - the one that America has come to associate with adults.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" England says archly. He shifts, crosses his legs the other way. He seems like he's bored.

"It has," America replies, raising his teacup to his mouth. The heat steams up his glasses and he's forced to retreat. "The War of 1812, in fact," he goes on, quickly, to cover it up.

He needn't have bothered. England isn't even looking at him.

"It's a good seventy years," England sighs. He breathes out on his cigarette, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "...I trust you've been well?"

"I've been alright," America replies. "You know, most of the time."

"Yes, yes, there was that unpleasantness, wasn't there? In the 1860s?"

"I guess you might call it that."

England nods. He doesn't seem terribly interested.

"You, uh..." America trails off, frowning. "Your Empire's... quite impressive. It spans about half of the globe?"

"A third. Yes, I suppose it's not a bad haul for a little island like me." England yawns. "Forgive me, I just came back from India two days ago. It's quite the journey."

"India." America gives an envious smile. "I bet it's wonderful."

"It's stinking hot," England grumbles. "He's a nice chap, though. He gives me a good deal on tea."

"I'm sure he does." America stirs his tea rather primly.

"What about you?" England looks at him properly now. "I hear you hit the west coast."

"California," America agrees.

"I hear there was gold." England tilts his head at him with a sudden greedy interest.

"There was some gold, yes," America says. He shrugs. "Not much. Everybody ran out to make it rich but most people didn't end up with much more than a few specks."

"A pity." England takes a last drag on his cigarette and then neatly stubs it out in the silver tray. "Well, it's certainly good to see you venturing out of your mousehole at long last, anyway. I always did think you took that Isolationist thing a bit too seriously."

"I'm still Isolationist, really," America says. "But we have trading partners and Cleveland thought it might be a good idea for me to start showing my face."

"And here I thought you wanted to wash your hands of us all for good."

America frowns.

"You're the one who told me not to look back," he says.

"Well, that was an impossible promise, too," England sighs. "We cannot deny what we are. None of it will matter in the end."

"England, you always seem so unhappy," America says. "I wish I knew why."

England is silent, white-lipped. He looks somewhere past America's shoulder, then down at his tea, staring and staring at it. Even now he acts like a martyr.

He's rich in more ways than one.

* * *

The reason England puts out all the lights but one is that he doesn't want America to see him. The single gaslamp is away across the room, sending out a halo of light that only touches the end of the bed.

He can feel, though: and what he feels is that England's skin is cracked. The ravines are deep and beneath them is something cold and rough. It moves like scales, has a sound like water. America clings to him, barely breathing.

He doesn't protest, just lets England have him. There is nothing to fight about and everything to lose.

Later, when he wakes up, England is gone. The curtains are drawn back and the grey light of London at dawn rolls coldly over the room. He sits up against the headboard, fingering the deepest of three bitemarks. It's on his collarbone and hurts like hell. He doesn't know why England bites the way he does - like he's really trying to take a chunk out of him.

Maybe it's not just England. Maybe they're all like this. America admits he's had little to no dealings with any of the others (except France, who he found to be even more melancholy and distant than England).

He draws his knees up and glances around the room. Without his glasses, it's hard to make this and that out but the exotic clutter has an overbearing presence, filling up every surface: globes, maps, ornaments, books, clothes, weapons, all aglitter in the hard light. It's all meaningless, surely. America still cannot bring himself to much care for fine clothes or fancy goods. He prefers his lands, his wildlife, his people. His love is immaterial.

He hears footsteps in the corridor; voices, too, and as they draw closer he recognises England's. The other is thicker, accented.

He snatches off his glasses and lies down again, pretending to be asleep. He doesn't want this to be the first time that England throws him out, especially not in front of someone else (in which case, no doubt, he'll insinuate that America ought to have already made himself scarce). If England wants him to go, he'll have to wake him and ask him to.

The door opens. He hears England falter.

"Ah, yes, I daresay you'll notice-"

"Amerique." A snort. "You do not waste time, Angleterre."

"He was willing."

"Indeed. This is unlike you, all the same. If you want to trade with him, why not simply crack him like a nut?"

A pause.

"I'm not sure that cracking would be advisable in his case." England's voice is low.

"I did not mean literally."

"Even so, the fact that he shows no signs at all - that he never has done - is worrying."

"Do you think?" France drawls. "Perhaps it is that he has no capacity for it. You have always maintained that you do not think he was manufactured as we were."

"That does not mean that he is not dangerous."

"With all due respect, mon ami, I think that the most pressing danger is currently you." Frances hums to himself. "This insatiable empire of yours is pushing you to the limit."

"I know," England groans. America can hear him pacing. "But they just want more and more. Every time I go before Victoria to present her with this deed or that jewel, she looks at me as if to say 'And what next?'."

"And do _you_ want more?"

"Of course I do! What next? Anything I can get my hands on! ...Well, you know what that's like."

"Yes, I do. I would say Napoleon was quite as bad."

"Then what am I to do?" The bed dips as England sinks onto the edge. "Wait for it to completely devour me?"

"Or hope that some little upstart knocks you off your throne."

"You are most welcome." England coughs. "Although I am hardly an upstart."

"I suppose that is true - it is more, I fear, that you simply cannot stand to see me have more than you."

"Or Spain." England pauses again. "...It _is_ rather bad. I'm afraid that America may have seen it."

"Show me."

"I hardly think-"

"Angleterre, I have no interest in throwing you to the mattress and having my way with you. For one thing, the bed is... well, occupied. To that end, I expect you must be tired."

"Not exactly," England replies coldly. "He hadn't much about him last night, I must admit. He just lay there."

"You said he may have seen?"

"Or felt, at the very least." In the silence that follows, America can hear the rustling of cloth. "He had his hands on my back the entire time. He was frightened, I expect. What would he think to make of it?"

"What indeed?" France's voice is closer. "Let me see."

America slits open his eyes, keeping his breathing as steady as possible. He sees England's back, his shirt and waistcoat bunched at his hips. France, long blonde hair hiding his face, is pawing gently over him.

Now America sees: England's flesh is deeply cracked, coming away at the spine, the shoulder blades, the tops of his arms. Beneath is not tissue and muscle but the cold glitter of chainmail, the hard glint of steel. He thinks of the armour worn by knights. That is what it is, nestled beneath the flesh.

He doesn't know what to think. He knows England isn't human, that none of them are, but...

Has he always been this way? That, America finds, is the hardest pill to swallow.

"I'm coming apart," England says dully. "It needs to be sewn back in before..."

"Yes, of course. We can't have you shedding your skin, can we?"

"Victoria will just have to do it. There's really no way around it." England sighs, running his hands through his hair. "Thank Christ there's not a war on, that's all I can say. I don't think my body could take it."

"You would burst at the seams," France say delicately. "I do not think anybody wants that."

"It's never happened, has it?" England starts to dress himself again. "I cannot recall."

"Spain, almost. And Rome, almost." France tilts his head. "Near misses. I was not as far gone as you are."

"Thank you for the reassurance." England stands, buttoning his waistcoat. "I'll simply to have to keep a close eye on it."

"I hope that will be enough." America feels France come close to the bed, leaning over him. "A strange creature, non? Most unlike us."

"It would seem that way. Don't touch him, you'll wake him up."

"I was looking at this." America feels France's cool fingertips on his collarbone, gently prodding at the tender mark. "What, dear Angleterre, is this?"

Another long pause.

"I... bit him, I confess."

"You were hungry?"

"Incredibly so. You know the sort."

"Yes."

"It was foolish, I know, but I could not help myself."

"It is regrettable, perhaps, that there is no war after all. That hunger might be put to better use. As it is, perhaps it would be best if you do not invite him to your bed again."

"This is the first time in well over a century."

"But you have so little control over yourself. I am asking you only to prevent yourself from doing something there is no coming back from."

Their voices are near the door. America hears the creak of the hinge as they retreat; the door swings shut and their words are muffled.

America sits up at once, clawing for his glasses. He can barely breathe. All these years and he has never known England for what he is - and still does not, for what kind of being wears armour beneath their skin and not atop it?

And not just England, if France's words are anything to go by: whatever their design, it is a curse of Europe, of antiquity-

And he knows that he is not like them. When his skin breaks, he bleeds.

He hurriedly pulls on his clothes. They haven't been properly hung or pressed, torn off him the night before, and he must look a fright - but all he cares about is getting out of here, away from England, from London, back to the United States as quickly as he can. He'll take the next ship going.

Perhaps, if it was someone he knew less intimately, he'd be intrigued rather than revulsed - but it's England, who has been his guardian and his best friend and his enemy and his lover. It hits him at the core. It hurts.

He's just about got himself presentable when the door opens and England is back, alone, carrying a tray of tea and toasted bread. He frowns, thrown, when he sees America up and dressed.

"Oh. I thought you were still asleep."

"I... really should be getting back to the American Embassy," America says, distractedly putting his cufflinks back in.

"Will you have something before you go?" England puts the tray on the dresser.

"No, I really should-"

"I brought coffee," England goes on, "and granary bread."

"I-I can't," America says, agonised. "I have to get back. I really shouldn't have spent the night."

"I see." England pours himself a cup of tea, the cluttered room filling up with the deep earthy smell of it. "Then may I invite you to dinner this evening?"

"I must decline, I'm afraid. I'm... heading down to Southampton this evening."

"That's awfully soon." England sips at his tea. "You've been here but a few days."

"Well, something's come up back home."

"I see." England nods. America watches him; it's hard to say whether he's hurt or not. After the initial show of surprise, his face has been completely blank. He rises, carrying his saucer, and puts out his other hand. "Then this is goodbye."

"Yes." America doesn't particularly want to touch him and gives only the briefest of handshakes, taking his own back quickly. "Thank you for... ah, your hospitality."

"Thank you for your company, however brief."

America nods, backing towards the door. He's desperate to get away and England must know it; his behaviour towards him is a marked difference from last night, at least when England was leading him up the stairs.

"Are you afraid to turn your back on me?" England asks this suddenly, watching America with narrowed eyes.

"N-no, of course not," America replies haughtily. He wants to add something like "Should I be?" but doesn't, turning on his heel. "Good day, England."

"And good day to you, America. Do call again when you can spare me the time."

This makes America turn again, his hand at the knob of the door. He wants to say something hard and angry, wants to cry that he's afraid, wants to ask all sorts of questions.

He stops. He watches England, who is staring at his teacup the way he did last night. He trails the spoon around the rim - bored, restless, uninterested.

America realises. He can't taste it.

* * *

Things are starting get _weird_ - which is just how I like them in this fandom. XD

Cleveland, btw, is **Grover Cleveland**, president of the United States (twice!) between 1885-89.

Next chapter soon, I hope!


	3. III

I hope this chapter will read smoothly - I actually wrote the middle part first out of all of this story and then went back and worked around it, haha. We'll see how well that went. XD

Thanks to: **featherwing25, JulietGivesUp, neighborehood, Lamashtar Two, Antheia Gwynn, haruhasu, Serenswyrd, Suzako, Iggy Butt, WinterGrownLily** and **Kanoi-chan**!

Align

[3/4]

"Well, I think it's about time, don't you?" A shrug. "After all, it's only been going on since 1914."

America, in the doorway to the dug-out in his brand-new uniform, gives a heavy sigh. He wasn't expecting a mouthful of abuse quite this soon.

"I'm here now," he says, fidgeting with his rifle.

"Forgive me for not throwing you a parade," England snaps, stubbing out his cigarette.

"What did you want me to do?" America asks. "I couldn't just... declare war by myself, Wilson had to agree to it and he wouldn't!"

"I don't expect you were terribly persuasive." England snorts. "Even now I don't think you're really cut out for this sort of thing."

This was meant as an insult, of course, but America is not offended. It's no bad thing to not be a blood-hungry nutjob of Europe's stock, in his opinion. Nations who find sport in destroying each other just for the hell of it are welcome to be "cut out for it".

As for England, well, America hasn't seen him for about thirty years and hasn't missed him. What he is, what he carries beneath his skin, America has put all this to the back of his mind. He is the New World, Isolationist and happy. There are doors he doesn't need to open, things he doesn't need to know.

"You're probably right," he says, shrugging. "I guess we'll just have to see how long I last."

"Don't be clever with me, you wretched brat," England replies coldly. He stands, easing his way around the desk.

He's in a bit of a state, his khaki uniform torn and mended and torn again, his skin bandaged and blistered. Who knows just what's beneath that greyish gauze.

America backs against the doorframe as England closes in on him; not afraid, really, it's more that he doesn't want to be near him. He fancies he can hear the clink of metal.

"Are you really so bloody short-sighted that you think the rest of the world isn't your problem?" England goes on.

"Why should it be?" America asks. "Perhaps I haven't yet been, ah... consumed."

England blinks. He is taken aback. America raises his chin, challenges him with a haughty look.

"That's what you said, isn't it?" he goes on. "That I had to want to kill for myself?"

"And you don't?"

America shrugs.

"Guess not. I'm not here for me."

"Oh?" England gives a cold smile. "And I'm supposed to believe that you're here for _me_?"

"I'm here for my men," America says, half-incredulous. "For my people, the Americans killed in 1915 when the _Lusitania_ was torpedoed-"

"Oh, how ludicrous!" England interrupts. "If you start thinking about war in terms of measly humans, you're going to give yourself a headache."

"Well, if it's not about humans then what _is_ it about?"

"What you can get out of it, of course." England shakes his head at him. "Let the humans worry about how many men they stand to lose. That's not our problem." He gives a frustrated groan. "Oh, I shouldn't have to explain this to you!"

He turns away, kneading at his forehead.

"No, perhaps it is a bit late," America says frostily. "Perhaps you should have explained all this centuries ago - when I was little. It's no good you expecting me to understand it all now."

"I know," England admits, putting his hands to the desk. "I know I should have - but I didn't know where to start. I'm a nation, I'm not naturally graced with parenting skills."

"And what exactly _is_ a nation, England?" America folds his arms. "That's what I need to know - before I ally myself with you."

"You've allied yourself with France before," England points out dully. "He's a nation - one older and odder than me, in fact."

"Maybe," America agrees, "but _he_ doesn't try to take a bite out of me every time I sleep with him!"

"I expect that's because you _don't_ sleep with him." England pauses. "...Do you?"

America feels his face burn.

"N-no, of course not. You're... the only one I've ever..."

"Fucked?"

"Loved."

This is the first time the word has gone between them. America says it defiantly because he knows that England won't like it.

After a long moment, England straightens again, pushing away from the desk.

"Nations do not love," he says calmly.

"W-well, _I_ do!" America twists his hands together, his palms slippery. "Or I _have_, at least."

"No, you haven't. America, don't say silly things. I doubt you know what love is."

"Oh, and you do?"

"No, I don't. None of us do. That's precisely what I mean." England turns to him at last. He looks exhausted. "We cannot love our people, we cannot love each other. In fact, I don't think we can really feel much of anything at all. It would certainly defeat the point."

"What point?!" America bursts out. "England, what are you? Tell me before I lose my goddamn mind!"

England says nothing, scowling at the dug-out wall.

"I've seen, you know," America goes on, determined to make him talk. "I've seen the metal under your skin. I've heard you talking to France, something about being manufactured."

England frowns. He bites at his lip.

"_England_!" America crosses to him, seizes him by the arm. He shakes him. "Why won't you tell me?! Don't I have a right to know?!"

Still England doesn't speak. America can feel himself losing his temper and lets him go. His skin is hot and prickling all over, his nails biting into his fists as he clenches them. He steps back with a deep breath.

"Why won't you tell me?" he asks again. "All these years...! Don't you think you should have told me you're a monster?!"

England's green eyes slide towards him.

"Is that what you think I am?"

"If you won't tell me otherwise!" America punches downwards, slamming his fist into the desk. It cracks, sending a split racing right across the surface of the wood. He exhales, watching England - who doesn't respond. "England, if you don't tell me right this second, I'll-"

"You'll what?" England cuts in calmly.

America falters, withdrawing his hand.

"I... I'll, uh-"

"You don't know," England says. "You don't know what you'll do - and neither do I. That's the danger in you. You're not like the rest of us. I realise that now. The rest of us, we're predictable. We do what were designed to do - so we can live with the burden of knowing what we are." England shakes his head. "But what would _you_ do with it, America? You, who speaks of love, who comes out here for his men, for revenge? You don't know the rules and so you cannot play by them. I don't think you can blame me for being wary of that."

"Then why not shun me?" America asks. "Why not leave me to die in the wilderness? You were the one who took me in, England! You raised me, you treated me like your child and then your friend, you taught me to read and write, you're the one who enticed me to love you! _Why_?!"

"I didn't know you'd turn out to be defective," England says delicately. "Besides..." He glances at the clean crack across the desk. "...I know strength when I see it."

"And you weren't trying to protect me?" America asks. "Not even a little bit?"

England shrugs.

"Probably I was," he says. "I was very young then, after all. I thought I knew what love was, too."

* * *

On the battlefield he sees it.

Between the bullets, through the haze of yellowish gas, when he has a gutful of shrapnel in No Man's Land, he sees it.

England and France have forms more terrible than he could ever have imagined, shimmering beneath burned-away skin. When the shells go off, when the flares go up, he sees them flash silver in the smoke. In the trenches they sew up each other's wounds, crooked stitches to keep the monsters in - but they are too open, too raw, too relentless. It's all too far gone, winding down in the bloodiest of ways.

England, though. He can still kiss. When he asks, America does not say no. These are the small comforts, as red as poppies in the remains of the day.

(When he awakes under the thin issue blanket, damp against England's silver skin, he always blames himself.)

* * *

"I'm hungry," England says. He's lying looking up at the fan in the ceiling, dull-edged with a cage to keep it in. It's a hot morning and he's still naked under the sheets. He shouldn't be here, not anymore. America is agitated and wishes he would go away.

"Breakfast, then," he suggests from the desk. He's already dressed, his tie as tight as he can stand it. He looks up from his paperwork. Proposals, solutions. He and Wilson have worked hard.

England sighs. He stretches, his back arching. America can see the outline of him beneath the thin sheet.

"Well, I don't have any food up here. You'll have to go back to your own Embassy-"

"Oh, dear me, no," England interrupts, lazily waving a hand at him. "Not _that_ kind of hungry."

America isn't biting today. He rises, going to the bedside. The window is just beyond, the greyish-blue morning insistent at the glass. Cigarette, lighter. When he's sucked the smoke over his fraying nerves, he looks at England again, his resolve stronger.

"You're being weird on purpose," he says. "So I won't kick you out."

"But you will."

"Yeah, I will." America begins to gather England's clothes and toss them onto the bed. "You need to go - _now_. I... I was stupid last night-"

"You're ashamed of it."

"No, I'm not." America runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not-"

"This isn't the first time, for Christ's sake." England snorts. "Far from it."

"Look, I can't be caught today!" America bursts out. "I can't be seen crawling out of your bed!"

"This is _your_ bed," England says smugly. "Besides, everyone knows."

"Whatever." America points towards the desk. "_That's_ what I need people to see today. The League of Nations, right? I need people to take me seriously-"

"Oh, that little boys' club again?" England groans, rolling over. "I do wish you and your pacifist know-it-all president would mind your own business. We know how to take care of our own here in Europe."

"Right." America sits on the edge of the bed, exhaling. "Looks like you got it all under control."

"Oh, you don't understand," England moans. He huddles under the covers stubbornly.

"Hey, no, I mean it." America lifts up the sheet. "You have to leave. Right now."

England sits up, throwing back the covers. His hair is wild and his eyes very green. He hunches a bit, like his skin is too small for him. America does not want to see what's underneath.

"I'm quite sure I didn't raise you to be so inhospitable," England grumbles, at last reaching for his shirt.

"I know you all laugh at me behind my back," America retorts. "You think I'm going to go in there today hanging off your arm for you to have another joke?"

"I doubt there will be much joking today - but I suppose I have to commend your self-respect."

"Good." America rises to go back to the desk. "Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

England simply shoots him a bored look.

"You're so much like the humans." He yawns. "How tedious."

America ignores him, going back to his work. Wilson has a long-winded way with words and sometimes it takes him two or even three gos at the same sentence to fully process what the old man is talking about. It's beautiful, though; Manifest Destiny, this is what it's all about. England, well, he could learn a thing or two...

"_England_!"

America says it sharply as he looks up and sees that England is no longer dressing. He's just standing in front of the mirror, naked but for his shirt and one sock, garter and all; swaying a bit, clutching at his elbows, staring like he doesn't recognise himself at all.

"Jesus, are you alright?" America stubs out his cigarette and comes to him, taking his shoulder. "_England_."

"Sorry." England shakes his head, pressing his fingertips to the crease of his brow. "I-I'm sorry, I just..."

"Look, do you want me to call the car for you?" America frowns. He wants to get rid of him as quickly as possible. "I don't want you wandering around French streets in a stupor."

"I'm fine." England pulls away. "I'll be alright, I just... I'm so _hungry_-"

"Then I'll get you something." America starts away. "I can't let you-"

"No." England catches his hand, stopping him. "It's not that kind of hunger."

"Well, I'm not letting you take a goddamn bite out of _me_," says America, who still has marks on his shoulder and collarbone.

"Oh, you... you don't understand."

"_What_ don't I understand?"

"Oh, this. Everything, it's... well, all a bit too carnal for you."

England reaches for his face - to pat his cheek, perhaps - and America recoils.

"Don't," he hisses. "I hate you treating me like that-"

"Like what?"

"Like... like I'm a baby, like I'll never learn-"

"Oh, no." England suddenly starts dressing again, going about it rather hurriedly. America is dry-mouthed as he watches him: the slip of his buttons, the creak of his belt buckle, the snap of the sock garter. An entrancing reversed strip-tease, bizarre in buffed wool and grey-greenish tweeds, his fingers deft around a slick half-Windsor. He takes up his jacket, slung over the dressing chair, and shimmies it on. His gold hair is all up at the back and on one side. America wants to offer him a comb but he also wants him to go. The room is claustrophobic with him in it, like he's taking up all the air.

"No, you will learn, America," he says, passing him; he looks him over, green eyes settling somewhere right in the centre of him. "The hard way, I expect. Make no mistake of that."

* * *

He's late. When he enters at Versailles, smoothing down his hair, hurrying apologies, Europe is already assembled. Allied Powers on one side, Central Powers on the other. England and France are close and conspiratorial, watching him as he takes his place. He feels his face burn; England is looking at him with a cold detachment, as though he didn't spend last night rocking him mad into the mattress. Insulted, no doubt, that America threw him out in the morning. All the cryptic claptrap in the world can't cover that up, although America succeeds in more or less ignoring him as he delivers his League of Nations proposal.

England is seething and he is pleased - even when he corners him during the coffee break.

"What exactly are you trying to prove?" he asks dangerously.

"Myself," America says. This is the best response, he feels.

"I suppose that's why you showed up late?" England examines his nails. "Then again, I suppose that _is_ your style, isn't it?"

"I... that's not... Wilson was-"

"Indeed. A word of warning - keep Wilson out of this if you want him in one piece."

America bristles.

"This is supposed to be a peace talk, England," he says coldly.

"A peace talk?" England snorts. "Did Wilson put that idea in your empty head, too? This is the doling out of the spoils, you stupid boy." He grins, sudden and white. "This is the best part."

"Oh, god, go and bully France," America snaps, pushing away from him.

"France isn't the one who needs reminding what he's here for," England says nastily; then he gives an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, good lord, I do wish you'd come to your senses."

"Me?" America flings back, incredulous. "You're the one who's totally lost it! You weren't like this when I was small, you-"

"Don't be so sentimental," is England's disgusted reply. He walks away.

At lunch, America notices that neither he or France eat a thing.

* * *

"In sum," France drawls, his rich accent thick around the words, "the Treaty of Versailles attempts to make peace in the fairest manner. My lands - and that of Belgique - have been gutted by four years of bitter fighting. I do not think that anyone can deny that."

Nobody can. The room is silent. America dips his head to look furtively at Belgium. She is on crutches, her right arm in a sling. When she breathes, her ribcage rattles.

It's alright, he thinks, for he and England. They can't know the toll of this war the way that France and Belgium do.

Neither can Germany. He sits, stoic, paler than usual, awaiting his sentence. America thinks that Austria and Hungary and Turkey have all got off pretty light, considering.

"Therefore," France goes on, "we order that reparations be paid by Allemange, both financial and territorial."

Germany gives a tight-lipped nod. France begins to read out the list; and America listens with his head in his hands. The clauses are damning, nothing short of humiliating - precisely what Wilson had warned against. If Germany cannot go from these talks with a straight back, at the very least, then he will be bitter - still bitter - and nothing will be fixed.

He glances at England under his hands; he's sitting with his arms folded, one leg thrown over the other, looking thoroughly uninterested. America supposes that he must be; after all, there's nothing in this for him.

France has finished with the list of reparations. Germany looks like he's about to be sick but he makes himself nod again.

"I understand," he says. His voice shakes.

"There is... one last thing," France says. He pauses for a moment, straightening his tie. America watches England shift slightly in his seat, leaning forward.

"Allemange, we find you to be guilty of all cause of this terrible war," France says. His voice is hard, merciless. "Therefore you will accept sole responsibility for its outbreak and upkeep between the years 1914 and 1918."

"I would respectfully disagree," Germany says, knotting his hands together. A cold film of sweat has broken out on his brow. "I am perfectly willing to admit my part in the conflict - but I alone-"

"I see," France interrupts sharply. "Then perhaps we may add to the list of reparations to be paid - to further help you to see you mistake." He looks towards England. "Angleterre, that might be arranged, non?"

"With ease," England replies with an icy smile. "Well, Germany, what will it be?"

"Y-you can't do this!" America can't help himself, standing and slamming his palms down on the table. "England, France, both of you...! You can't make him take the whole blame for a war we all fought in!"

"Amerique, as the victors," France says boredly, "we can do whatever we choose. Will you not sit down? You are embarrassing yourself."

"No, I won't sit down!" He can't argue with France, whom he has always found difficult to even look in the eye; he appeals to England instead. "England, this isn't right! You know it isn't!"

England looks lazily at him.

"I don't know why you think you have any more sway over me than you do over France," he says.

"Because I-"

"The amount of times I've shagged you is irrelevant at this present time; please don't try to use it as a trump card." England scratches at his cheek. "Anyway, I do wish you'd sit down and stop making a scene."

America is speechless. France kneads at his forehead.

"Amerique, sit down if you know what is good for you."

He can feel every nation in this crowded room looking at him; still he will not be cowed, although his voice is quieter when he speaks again:

"This is... exactly what Wilson said you would do..."

"If you have nothing useful to say then go outside," Spain, on his right, snaps.

"Yes, perhaps it would be better if you left," England agrees, examining his fingernails. "Do go, America, before I do something drastic."

"F-fine." America snatches up his papers - his lovely neat League of Nations notes - and kicks in his chair. "Fine."

He can feel all their eyes on his back as he leaves the room, his face burning. He utters a shaky sigh as he pushes the door shut behind him and leans against it. He thought he was ready for this, thought he could hold his own against them, but they're much more savage than he could ever have imagined.

And England... He has warped so much that America barely recognises him anymore. He thinks fleetingly of his childhood, the fireside stories and the long walks in the woods and the great soft bed they shared, and half-thinks that he must have imagined it all. That boy, he can't have been England. How could somebody have changed that much?

There is a chair in the hallway, next to one of the windows. America flops into it, tucks his papers underneath, lights himself a cigarette. He rests his chin on his hand as he looks lazily through the glass. It's raining - and not taking time about it, either.

He should contact Wilson - telegram would be best - and tell him it's not all going to plan, that they didn't anticipate France and England being quite so... difficult. He finds that he's not sure quite how to put it without resorting to half a dozen expletives.

He takes his pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and fishes out one of the sheets, beginning to scribble a note to send to Wilson when he gets back to the American Embassy. It goes something along the lines of 'It's all hopeless, need to rethink'. He'll omit that they made an utter fool of him.

The door opens. Germany comes slinking out through the gap, his head down. He is alone.

America breathes out on his cigarette in the silence. Germany glances up, meets his gaze with ice-blue eyes.

"You are still here." This is not a question but Germany nonetheless sounds surprised.

"Yes." America bites at his bottom lip. "I, uh... I'm sorry about-"

"It's alright," Germany interrupts. His sharp handsome face is very white. "It is understandable that you would be excitable."

America frowns.

"That's... that's not what I-"

"Will you excuse me?" Germany's tone is cluttered, distant. He drifts past, heading for the heavy oak doors leading out into the open courtyard. He'll be soaked to the skin in seconds but he doesn't seem bothered. America doesn't know how to broach it, putting out his cigarette as Germany opens the doors. The rain lashes silver on the concrete steps.

Now the door to the conference room opens once more: the other nations crowd out, moving in one seething mass. They are half-naked, unbuttoning and unzipping, man-made fabrics whispering over glinting skin. None of them speak.

America sits very still for a moment, the last burst of smoke bitter between his teeth as they push past him. He catches sight of England near the front, shoulder-to-shoulder with France. His jacket is off and he's busy unknotting his tie.

"England!" America pushes up, plunges into the mass of nations following Germany. He fights his way through them to get to England, seizing him by the elbow. "England, wait!"

England turns to him, his tie loose about his collar. His shirt is almost entirely unbuttoned, too. He looks America up and down.

"What now?" he asks coolly. America can feel him pulling and hangs on tighter.

"Where are you going?" he demands. He tugs at England's open shirt. "What the hell is going on?!"

"We came to an agreement." England pries America's hand off. "I seem to recall you leaving. I think you ought to."

"Why?" America tries to grab at him again but England is out of his reach. "England!"

The nations are all past him, filing through the open door and into the rain. But for England, none of them have even looked at him - as though they do not see him, cannot hear him.

"England, _wait_! Please!"

England stops on the steps, turning just as America reaches him.

"What's happening?" America shake his head in disbelief. "Have you all gone crazy?"

"Not crazy, no." England slips his tie out from under his collar. "I really think it would be best if you stayed out of this, poppet."

England hasn't called him that in so long that America doesn't know quite where to put himself. He falters, not protesting when England deftly loops the cool silk of his tie over his eyes, blindfolding him. America's first instinct is not to tear it off but to grope blindly for him - but England is well out of his reach.

"It's for the best," he says gently. "It really is for the best."

"_England_-!"

America hears the boom of the doors as they slam shut. He stops for a moment, breathing hard, his eyelashes fluttering madly against grey silk. The rain rushes against the windows.

Beyond that door, something terrible is about to happen.

He tears the tie off, tossing it over a pot-plant, and seizes the heavy brass handles of the doors. They are unlocked but require force, the tendons in his wrists screaming as he jams them down and shoves. The doors swing open and he is through, skidding out into the downpour. He all but tumbles down the steps to the square courtyard with its ornamental trees and benches.

The other nations are here, crowding like vultures, wrenching and pulling. Their wet skin breaks with every motion, yielding to the honed metal beneath.

In England and France and Spain he sees the sort of armour that goes with knights; in Japan, however, who has his back to him, he sees the precise, fluid rectangles of the samurai.

And where is Germany?

America circles them in silence. He realises that he already knows. They are tearing him apart and devouring him - exactly like animals. France moves his foot and America sees Germany's hand, pale and clutching. The fingers twitch.

There is blood. In the rain it spreads and runs, staining the slabs of slate, oozing between the cracks. Germany, it seems, hasn't a trace of metal within him.

America wants to force himself between them, wants to grab England and France and bang their heads together - but he can't make himself move. The nausea rolls slickly through him as the blood draws near to the toes of his polished shoes. He lets his gaze settle on England's back. He can see his hands - the ones that held his when he was a child, turned the pages of books, ran firmly over his body just last night.

They are red.

* * *

America vomits twice when he gets back to the American Embassy, shivering over the sink. In the end he simply fled. There was nothing he could do.

He peels off his wet clothes and steps into the shower, scrubbing at his freezing skin. There isn't a speck of blood on him but he feels as though there is: he is stained by association, osmosis through England, whose mouth laid kisses over his body last night.

The bed will have to be stripped. Burned, even.

He steps out of the bathroom in his white robe, rubbing his hair dry. The bedroom smells of fresh coffee, brought up by one of the aides on its silver tray. He slips on his glasses and sinks into the windowseat, pouring himself a cup of bitter black; it steams up the glass as he presses his forehead to it to watch the rain. The afternoon is grey and heavy with no sign of lifting. The blood, at least, will be washed away.

There is a knock on the door and an aide leans into the suite.

"Sir, there's someone here to see you."

America looks resolutely at his coffee cup.

"If it's England-"

"No, sir, I believe he said he was the representative of Russia?"

"Oh." America looks up, frowning. Russia. What on earth does he want? He wasn't at the conference, having bowed out of the war in 1917. "Well, alright, I'll see him."

"He's in the drawing room, sir, when you're ready." The aide nods and dips out of the room again.

America hurriedly finishes his coffee and dresses, throwing on slacks and a shirt. He doesn't bother with a necktie or waistcoat, he knows Russia doesn't go in for that sort of thing and won't mock him. He pads downstairs barefoot, smoothing down his damp hair. His skin is hot and itchy from the shower. He feels like he can't stand still.

Russia is beside the fire, warming his hands. He looks like he was caught in the rain. He smiles placidly at America as he enters the room.

"Good evening, America." A nod. "Thank you for welcoming me."

"I'm... surprised to see you," America admits. "You weren't at the talks."

"No," Russia agrees. "There isn't much in it for me."

"Or me, apparently," America sighs, at last crossing the room. He looks up over the fireplace - there's a copy of Washington's presidential portrait over the carved oak, just as there is in every American Embassy across the world.

"Can I get you something?" America adds. "A cup of coffee?"

"It is very generous, comrade, but no. I thank you anyway."

America frowns at 'comrade'; Russia sees it but does not amend.

"What can I do for you, then?" America sinks into an armchair before the fire, gesturing for Russia to do the same. "I didn't think you had even come to Paris. France said you had refused to attend."

"My government - if indeed it can be called that - refused to attend. They said we had already made peace with Germany and we have enough of our own problems at home." Russia shrugs. "This I cannot argue with."

"But...?"

"Well, I admit I have a personal interest in the matter." Russia looks at the ceiling. "I suppose you might call it... scientific."

America's brow creases.

"I don't understand."

"Hm, well, let us say that our European brethren have some... interesting characteristics." Russia's pale eyes hold America's. "You understand, da?"

America feels his skin grown cold.

"...You mean the armour?"

"I mean what is beneath the armour." Russia knots his long fingers together. "I do not expect that England told you this particular bedtime story."

America breathes out.

"And what bedtime story is that?"

"Nations are monsters, as old as human civilisation itself," Russia says. His voice is gentle, melodic. "We are the terrors in folktales - when humans could not make sense of us. That was when we ruled them. But then we chose to take human forms. That was our downfall. They were able to tame us." He shakes his head. "When you speak of the armour, you do so in revulsion - but the armour is not the thing to be feared. The armour is to keep the monstrous side of a nation locked in."

"And what if it starts to show?" America asks in a low voice. "Th-through the skin, I mean?"

"Nations that become Empires - consumed with power and greed - are in tune with their most basic instinct. The armour has more strain put on it to keep them at bay. I will give the humans their due, however - their craftsmanship is good. I have never heard of any nation rupturing their armour completely."

"And have you heard of nations tearing apart and devouring another one?" America asks sharply. He can't help himself: the words are out before he can stop them.

Russia simply smiles.

"Ah," he says. "I thought that is what they might do. It is not unheard of."

"Why?" America demands. "Why did they do it?!"

"It is done to nations who do not have armour to keep in their cores," Russia says simply. "The flesh is stripped away, leaving the creature beneath. I do not expect you stayed to witness that."

"No," America bites out.

"It is a warning," Russia says simply. "Kaiser Wilhelm no doubt had Germany's armour removed prior to the outbreak of war. Nations without armour keeping their volatile cores in check are more powerful. I expect the kaiser thought he would win the war quickly and easily if he removed his nation's shackles. That the others tore him apart is nothing less than an open invitation to put it back in. If his government have any sense, they will comply."

"I-I see." America presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. After thirty years of branding England a devil for the silver under his skin, this new information is hard to process: that England would otherwise be worse.

"So why did you come all the way over here to tell me this?" he asks at length.

"Because I have a special interest."

"And what special interest would that be?"

"Well," Russia says. He leans in with a smile. "Only if you can keep a secret?"

America frowns again. He wishes Russia didn't find such delight in dancing around people.

"You have my word," he replies - but regrets it immediately.

"I've had mine removed," Russia says calmly. "Comrade Trotsky thinks it is for the best, all things considered."

"And that's why you're interested in what happened to Germany?"

"Naturally." Russia shrugs again. "Of course, he was already in the firing line. I do not think I will draw the same attention."

"...Are you planning to?" America asks warily.

"I am not planning to start a war, if that is what you mean," Russia says coolly. "As I say, I have enough problems of my own. You heard what happened to my royal family?"

"I-I did. I'm sorry."

"Well, now we are similar, da?" Russia is cheerful again, pressing his large hands together.

"Somewhat," America murmurs. He studies Washington's painted eyes, the fleck of white on the irises, the cloudy insubstance of the wig.

"You still haven't told me why you came all the way over here to tell me all this," he says absently. "What does it have to do with me?"

"Well, because we are similar."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Russia scowls - as though he thinks America is being stupid on purpose.

"You do know, don't you?" he says, pressing his thumbs together. "That you do not have an armour cage within you?"

"Oh." The weight of this sinks into America suddenly. "Y-yes, I guess I did know."

Russia rolls his eyes.

"Then until now you have not realised the magnitude of such a thing," he says. "The potential that you have."

"O-or maybe they never thought it was worth bothering about," America replies hurriedly. "Maybe I don't... I mean, maybe I'm different-"

"I doubt it," Russia interrupts heartlessly. "I know that they put one into your brother. You and he cannot be very different from one another."

America gives a helpless shrug.

"Well, I can't help it if none of my presidents have ever suggested it," he says. "England never suggested it, either. Besides, I can't say I've ever felt like... like tearing apart another nation with my bare hands or-"

"Not yet." Russia says this calmly. "But one day, I expect, you will - and when you do, there will be nothing to stop you. I find that to be very interesting - because I now find myself the same way." He smiles, reaching out and patting America's knee. "I do hope we will be able to control ourselves, comrade."

"I don't think it could be any worse than what I saw today," America says stiffly. "Why - what are you expecting to happen?"

"Nothing in particular. I simply think that France and England have not handled things very well. I do not see how things can end happily, even if we are at peace."

"_You're_ not," America points out.

"No, that is true. In that regard, I suppose I do not much care." Russia looks at America with great interest. "But _you_ care, da?"

"I'm Isolationist."

"But you had a plan - you and your president. The League of Nations, wasn't it?"

"Yes." America frowns. "How did you know?"

"France told me. He was not very kind about it."

"I don't expect he was."

"But I don't think it's such a bad idea," Russia goes on. "It would be nice if we could settle our differences before they go to the battlefield. That is something I find unpleasant about humans: they always want to kill each other. I think that it is they who are the real monsters."

Again America's eyes are drawn to Washington's. Were they as blank and merciless in real life? He finds that he can't remember - in fact, he can barely remember what Washington was even really like. He can't remember his voice, can't remember his habits, can't remember his smell. All he recalls is what the powder smelt like, how it felt when it got under his nails; everything else has become entangled in the lore of his land, locked in behind oil paintings and embroidered eagles. History is something that the humans excel at.

And what he realises is that, for all that England changed in those last years, his body warping and blistering around the armour caging him, it was not _he_ who wanted the war. It was Washington - and the others, Jefferson and Franklin and Adams - who wanted to fight, who drove them apart.

It was this man, with his eyes America cannot remember, who wanted blood.

"I hope I have not upset you, comrade." Russia speaks suddenly, tilting his head at him. "You have become very quiet."

"Oh." America blinks at him. "No, I just... you've given me a lot to think about."

"Well, I do not want you to think that I am alleviating blame," Russia says. "France and England have behaved very poorly all the same. You and I would do very well to keep out of their way."

"I'm not giving up on the League of Nations," America says. "Wilson says it's the best way of preventing another war on this scale."

Russia shrugs, rising.

"I wish you the best of luck in convincing the others. I must be going. Comrade Trotsky does not know I am here."

America stands, too.

"Thank you for taking the trouble to tell me," he says. "It's more than England has ever done."

"Well, maybe he had his reasons, da?" Russia seems amused at this. "But going forward, I think it is better that you know. The road before us is a long and difficult one."

"Yeah. I guess it is."

"I will say goodnight, then, comrade." They shake briefly. "I hope you will not have nightmares."

"About what I saw today?" America gives a watery smile. "I think I'll be fine."

"Even though it was England?"

"Oh, you know what they say," America replies absently, looking at the fire. "Better the devil you know."

* * *

When America awakes, the devil is at his bedside. He can smell the cigar smoke, recognises it as the brand from India.

"Get out," he says, rolling over.

"There's no need to be like that," England sighs. He's brought the mahogany chair from the desk right over, his foot tapping against the frame of the bed. Who knows how long he's been there.

"Really, this is quite as bad as yesterday morning," England goes on. "You couldn't get me out fast enough."

America sits up angrily.

"You have got some nerve," he snaps. "_Especially_ after yesterday!"

England shrugs.

"What happened yesterday had nothing to do with you."

"Didn't it?" America raises his chin.

"Of course not. Your League of Nations... _thing_, well, that's not going to do anybody much good now. The damage is done."

"You say that like you think it'll never happen again," America says icily. "But it will, England - it will because you behave like this."

England arches his eyebrows in amusement.

"Just me?"

"You and France."

"I seem to recall it being something of a worldwide affair." England exhales on his cigarette. "Of course, I expect you're very good at forgetting about that sort of thing. You know, being Isolationist."

America glowers at him.

"I thought you said none of it had anything to do with me?"

"Well, I rather think that's a decision you've made yourself," England says delicately. "You and Wilson did your utmost to keep your noses out of it - but now that you're here, you feel that you might as well try to herd us into line, eh?"

"We were only trying to help!" America clenches his fists. "B-besides, Russia said he thinks that the League of Nations is a good idea."

"Did he now." England tilts his head. "I confess I did wonder what on this earth you could have been talking about with him."

America frowns.

"How... how did you know he was here?"

"France told me. He thought I'd be interested."

"And how did he know?"

"We are in Paris. You can't think a chap as big as Russia could slip by without him noticing." England gives an icy smile. "Still, I don't imagine he came all the way over here just to exchange niceties."

"It was because of what you did yesterday," America says, looking at the far wall. "To Germany."

"Yes. I expect you think that was, ah... a lack of control on our part. It was quite the opposite, I assure you."

"Russia told me, England. About the armour you all have inside you." He doesn't mention that Russia's has been removed - that is most definitely Russia's business and most definitely not England's.

"I see." England tips his head back. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, we haven't done Germany any permanent damage. ...At least not physically."

America looks at him; watches his breathing, the bob of his throat as he swallows.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asks.

"Tell you what?"

"About... the armour, what you are. You always kept saying I wouldn't understand-"

"Well, where does one start?" England sighs.

"You didn't even try, England." America pauses. "...Did you think that if you didn't put armour in me, you wouldn't have to explain?"

"Oh, you know, do you? That's saved me a job." England straightens again, stubbing out his cigar on the bedpost. He flicks it into the ashcan by the desk. "Actually, it's far simpler than that, my dear. You don't have it in you because you don't need it."

America scowls. He knows they've had this conversation before - back in 1917 in the dug-out. Now he wants an answer.

"Why?" he asks. "Because I'm weak? Because I'm Isolationist? Because I'll never be an empire?"

England gives a sigh.

"No," he says. "Because you're not like the rest of us. You're not a monster."

America is disarmed. He doesn't know what to say to this.

"You talk of love, you talk of fairness," England goes on. "You want to fight alongside your men - for them. _I'm_ the one who doesn't understand. Do you see? I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you."

America says nothing. There is a sudden weight in his chest, a bitterness in his mouth. How like England to blame him: he is a master of self-pity.

"Will you go?" America says quietly. "I want you to leave."

England exhales.

"Look at you," he says, "ordering me from your chamber from beneath the sheets - like the Queen of Sheba."

America glares at him.

"England," he says coldly. "Get out."

"Very well." England rises - quite as slowly as he feels like - and dusts himself down. America watches the dull glint of his waistcoat buttons. It's unlike him to have his jacket open: maybe he thought he'd be getting something else.

He puts his hand to the metal frame of the bed and leans down. America recoils but finds himself caged between the headboard and England, who firmly presses his mouth to his. He tastes of smoke, tainted, exotic - and then blood because America bites him.

"Well, well." If anything England seems amused as he draws back, licking his lip. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were going the same way as us."

America, of course, remembers that England used to bite him - years ago, before he knew what was happening to himself. He points at the door.

"_Out_," he says. "_Now_."

"Alright, alright." England wipes off his bloodied bottom lip on his thumb - then smears it over America's cheek. "Give me a bell if you're in London."

And then he's gone, sweeping out of the room as though he took a wrong turn and ended up at America's bedside by accident. America wipes his cheek clean, the blood sticky on the heel of his hand. He licks it off.

Red, sicksweet, like an apple with a bite taken out of it.

* * *

At this point, I confess that:

a.) This story was inspired in part by _Neon Genesis Evangelion_

b.) I haven't written anything of the last chapter yet

I don't know which is worse. T.T


End file.
